The dogwoods are just opening in Pennsylvania, their milky white petals tipped with burgundy, tiny dots of green in their center. I brought some in today and put them in the light of the window. Now they are framed by the yellow-green and grey-black of the forest beyond. But the light's the thing during this time of Spring.
A Light exists in Spring
Not present on the Year
At any other period--
When March is scarcely here
A Color stands abroad
On Solitary Fields
That Science cannot overtake
But Human Nature feels.
It waits upon the Lawn,
It shows the furthest Tree
Upon the furthest Slope you know
It almost speaks to you.
Then as Horizons step
Or Noons report away
Without the Formula of sound
It passes we stay--
A quality of loss
Affecting our Content
As Trade had suddenly encroached
Upon a Sacrament.
Emily Dickinson
c.1864
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